"The day Crown Prince Kael died, he made two vows: to protect his little sister, and to slaughter the royal family that betrayed him. The gods heard—and sent him screaming back into his own infant body."

Now reborn with memories intact, the so-called "stillborn prince" begins his silent revenge from the cradle. His weapons? A stolen future’s knowledge, the forbidden Omni-Core magic thrumming beneath his chubby fingers, and the fact that no one suspects a baby.  

But the queen who poisoned his mother senses his strangeness. The church hunts children marked by "demonic regression." And his kind older sister—the only royal who ever loved him—keeps smiling at him in a way that chills his reborn soul.  

This time, Kael won’t die a martyr. He’ll crown himself king atop their graves.

The first rule of being a reborn prince? Never let them see you're anything but a helpless baby.  


I learned this the hard way when Queen Isolde's physician pried open my mouth with cold metal tools, searching for "signs of demonic influence."  


"Perfectly normal infant," the man declared as I drooled on purpose.  


If only you knew, I thought, watching the queen's disappointed frown.  


At four months old, I witnessed my first murder.  


Matron Helga—the only servant who showed my mother kindness—suddenly choked during my feeding. Her lips turned blue as she collapsed.  


"Summer fever," the court physician lied while her body still twitched.  


That night, when the replacement nurse (reeking of Isolde's rose perfume) tried to feed me, I sank my gums into her with all my baby strength.  


The king sighed. "All babies bite, Selene."  


But Isolde's eyes gleamed with suspicion. She knew this was no accident.  


By six months, I could access slivers of my Omni-Core.  


When a nursemaid pinched me for crying, my anger lashed out—and every drop of milk in the palace curdled instantly.  


Servants scrambled as noblewomen shrieked over spoiled tea. The cheesemaster wept into his ruined wheels.  


"Find who cursed our dairy," Isolde commanded from her throne.  


Beside her, my half-sister Seraphina—the only royal who'd been kind in my past life—hid a smile behind her fan.  


Seraphina visited my crib that night.  


At sixteen, she moved like living shadow, her violet eye (the other hidden behind black hair) gleaming in the torchlight.  


"Hello, little destroyer," she whispered, dangling a silver rattle shaped like a coiled snake.  


I played dumb, waving my chubby fists.  


She leaned closer. "You ruined my milk too... and I've always hated milk." Her warm breath smelled of mint. "Clever boy."  


Before I could react, she pressed the rattle into my palm. It burned with familiar magic.  


"Hide this well," she murmured as footsteps approached. "Mother checks your toys every full moon."  


Then she was gone, leaving me gripping an artifact that shouldn't exist for another two centuries.  


That night, I dreamed of Seraphina standing over my corpse in another life, whispering:  


Somewhere in the dark, a voice hissed: "Burn, abomination."  


Chapter 2 - The Nursery Conspiracy